


established

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Religious Guilt, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-29 10:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13925706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: He thinks perhaps Murphy knows only about their never, not about the never that belongs to him alone.





	established

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much @Chainsawlicker for cheering me on and filling the role of the best beta I could've hoped for! :)

The first time Murphy rides him, they just turned seventeen.

They never talk about it.

*

It's the middle of the night when Murphy wakes him by wiggling his hand under the covers. He scrapes his nails over Connor's navel until he starts awake, sometimes breathing out a moan which stretches the limit of their fragile understanding. It's not his fault; he's being pulled out of his dreams by an action that could very well be a dream - if it starred another person - but he has to make up for the mishap nonetheless, so Connor pushes his hips up for Murphy to remove his briefs.

Left cold in the dark, he becomes pliant once Murphy's hand strokes him to hardness, his fingers as slick and warm as where he's prepared. He always is, maybe because he disapproves of wasting time, or because he doesn't want to bother him with biological shortcomings. Maybe he thinks Connor forgot he's a man somewhere between roughhousing and fucking him every few weeks.

When he's ready, Murphy straddles him and bears down.

It never goes on for long.

Murphy stays on top of him, fists clenched on his own thighs and back bent as he waits until Connor finishes as well, and then he climbs off and leaves him to wipe the evidence away.

It's just fine. Remorseful thoughts are left for confession.

*

He's drunk and inopportune thoughts have been flooding his mind for hours despite the rules.

They are of crucial importance. They are to bind them in a non-negotiable contract that doesn't allow kissing, forewarning, questions or thoughts in general. They're what holds them together, and he knows of their importance, but he also knows how it feels to have Murphy come against him, and the memories cloud his judgment.

Connor licks his lips and sets out to ruin the day. “If ye were- Murph,” he says, pulling off his socks and catching himself on the table for balance. “If ye were so inclined,” he starts again, “Ye could leave off yer clothes right from the start. So I wouldn't—ye know.” He nods. “Have to wonder.”

“What?”

“Nothin'.”

Three weeks, one day.

Connor keeps his mouth shut and his eyes to himself until Murphy stumbles into his line of sight, one shoe on and one off, smoke between his fingers. He looks flustered.

“'m not prepared,” he breathes out with his smoke and pulls a face right after. It probably burns in his throat. Connor looks away to focus on the space between their beds.

“How long does that take?” He doesn't need to know.

There's no answer until Murphy finishes his smoke, perched on edge of his own bed with his bloody shoe still on. “I could do it,” he tells the ashtray. “But it doesn't need to be a thing, no? I can do it real quick.”

Connor nods, insanely, and proceeds to go about his business; locking the door, taking a piss, turning off the light. Before he stumbles to bed, he averts his eyes, firm and definite, and doesn't listen to the procedure on the other bed even when his steps falter, whiskey in his veins turning his stomach and clenching his insides in all the weird ways. He undresses, breathing through his mouth. The mechanics of Murphy's preparing isn't something he's familiar with, but he doesn't need to understand it.

It's not for him to know or hear or witness. He needs to do the fucking, nothing more.

“Ready,” he states, lying back, staring at the ceiling. His cock lies heavy, ready since the third shot at the bar, since twenty-two days ago. Since a decade ago.

Something drops, causing Murphy to mutter and Connor to twitch in a sudden panic about light flooding the room—but it stays dark as Murphy climbs on the bed and crouches over him. That was fast, Connor wants to say. He doesn't, because a slick hand reaches for him and he remembers they're not supposed to talk.

Murphy grips him like he always does; with practiced efficiency, and then with a surprised grunt when he realizes there's no need to coax the size out of him this time. Changing course, Murphy lets go and gets right down to the actual business.

It doesn't fit.

“Bloody fuck,” Murphy breathes. “The fuck is this-”

“What?” Connor says, a fistful of the blanket between his fingers to keep his sanity and teeth clenched because it's so much tighter than usual, it can't be good, this can't be normal, this can't—

Murphy whines, sliding down, stumbling right off the bed.

“What?” Connor says again, cock flapping uselessly on his belly.

The lube comes up, landing on his chest, then Murphy is there again, between one blink and the next, and coats him a second time.

“Ow, fuck-”

A third time.

“What's the matter?” His hips thrust up without his input, forcing painful sounds out of his brother, but he can't fucking help it. “What's the problem?” he mutters as Murphy tries again, stuttering out a breath.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He does, he does even when Murphy rams the heels of his palms into his chest and _sits._ Without moving and without breathing.

In the dark, adjusted even though he wishes they weren't, his eyes see more than they should. Despite the struggle, Murphy hasn't lost much of his hardness.

Running on smoke and whiskey only, Connor grips him by the hips - forbidden - and fucks up - forbidden - and turns off his thoughts - inadvisable. Then he loses control.

*

The sound of running water wakes him before his headache has time to settle in, and for a few blissful moments, Connor exists in peace.

When he swallows, it comes rushing back, the night and all the bad things included; the awful taste in his mouth, the pounding behind his eyes, the too loud sound of Murphy taking a shower behind him, vaguely reminding him of a couple of shots he shouldn't have ordered and the resulting madness that followed.

He groans, presses the pillow over his head, and lies motionless until he's ready to pretend the reason for it is the hangover and not because he doesn't feel strong enough to look at his brother just yet. The memory of last night is clear enough that he knows he shouldn't have done what he did, but the details are too hazy to give him an actual reason or a replay of how it went down.

The water turns off and Murphy walks past, rustles with clothes, and proceeds toward the kitchen.

“It's late,” he says. The tap starts running and the coffee machine groans awake.

Connor emerges with a sigh and the need to say something he isn't sure of. The smell of fresh coffee mixes with the soap from Murphy's shower, sharp in his nose. “We got any bacon left?” he asks, randomly choosing the first thought in his mind as he peers around his blanket to hopefully see his brother preparing breakfast.

By the fridge, Murphy grunts out a no and closes the door again. “Eggs?”

Connor's heart sinks in his toes even though he isn't standing. It leaves him dizzy, eyes fixed on Murphy at the stove.

He _limps_.

“Murph,” Connor says, scrambling to sit up without knowing how to go on.

“No eggs?”

“I hurt ye,” Connor rasps because he did, and there's nothing in his head to understand why—there is, but he doesn't want to poke at it.

Murphy shrugs and cracks open an egg and doesn't deny.

*

After work, he shoos Murphy off and goes to church, confessing in vague terms to committing the cardinal sin of lust. And losing control, later.

None of this _happens_ , ever, not even the fucking—fucking. In general.

Fuck.

Once a month, he confesses the same sin to the same priest, and while the man may not know the extent of the sin in question, the Lord sees everything. The priest listened to him for years, ever since they came to Boston, yet there's no sane way to make him understand the difference now, to make him choose the right form of punishment.

He is to apologize for overstepping, the priest says, and to recite countless prayers, but that he does anyway.

Slumping his shoulders, Connor leaves the church, puts his shades on his face to hide for a while, and chain-smokes his way to the drugstore. A headache pounds behind his eyes, but he forces himself away from the painkillers on to the other shelves, frowning around to find something that could help—with the apology. To make amends.

An elderly lady eyes him with suspicion, and the salesperson looks as if he's five seconds from coming over, so Connor grabs a handful of random lotions and hurries to the counter. He can't bloody well ask, can he, and he can't stay in here and read these things, not with an audience and not with these thoughts in his head.

Outside, he clutches the bag to his chest and rounds the corner to look inside like he bought a batch of drugs instead of fucking creams.

Most of them are garbage. One advertises smooth hands, including a peeling effect, two help against wrinkles, another—soothes. Soreness, sensitive skin.

All right.

Connor makes his way home, smoking until he's nearly sick with it and replaying the priest's orders in his head until he can't justify leaving the bag in the trash outside and never mentioning it again. When he slinks through the door, Murphy is in the process of wrapping a towel around his hips. Again - weird in itself, but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I've got something,” he croaks before he clears his throat. Then he says it again, taking his shades off and walking briskly to Murphy's frowning form. “To help,” he says, pointing at the towel. “Take that off, aye?”

“Help with what?” Murphy asks, clutching the towel and taking a step back.

“With the- Just with the discomfort, all right? Take it off now.”

“I don't think so,” Murphy says, and then they wrestle.

Connor wins.

He snatches the towel and waits until Murphy follows his order to sit on the bed. The air is thick, heavy in his lungs, perspiration on his forehead making him want to wipe his wrist over it. He doesn't, and he doesn't look beyond Murphy's red cheeks and chest, solely focusing on unscrewing the lid of the cream when he says, “Don't make this hard, Murph.” Then he winces, squeezes lotion on his finger, and taps against Murphy's thigh. “Up now, knee to yer chest.”

Murphy lies back and complies.

It looks like it hurts. It looks like it hurts. It hurts, it looks like—fuck.

Connor smears over it carefully, ignoring Murphy's hiss. Underneath the lotion and the discomfort and the clenching, he's very warm. It looks like it hurts, Connor thinks again. His back is bent at an awkward angle, leading his blood to pool in his head, and in front of his eyes, Murphy's cock swells.

As soon as the lotion is rubbed in, Connor smooths Murphy's leg back down and gives it a final pat because he's lost it somewhere between giving the order and Murphy complying without questioning what it is he wanted to do, and then he takes the towel, drapes it over Murphy's lap - for modesty purposes - and goes to wash his hands.

*

When Murphy stands beside his bed in the middle of the night, the discomfort must be gone, and for a frantic moment, Connor thinks he's going to refuse for the first time. Already, he's on his way to madness, and this won't help make him better. It will make things worse. For him.

In silence, Murphy waits for him to wake up, to submit, to take off his clothes. His fingers dance idly over his chest, tracing the line of hair growing down from his navel.

It's never been about making him feel better. This is supposed to be about Murphy, it always was, and Connor will refuse to let it affect him to a point where he thinks about madness, simple as fucking that.

He's too eager.

He lasts for a minute.

“Fuck,” Connor pants. “Fuck, Murph. Sorry, sorry,-” Mortified, he stares at what he can see of the dark ceiling until Murphy slides off, movement slow and face as blank as it gets. The situation is so new, he doesn't know where to begin. There are rules for this, and one clearly states he can't come before Murphy does. He followed those rule without exception. Never once, not fucking once—

Murphy makes to leave, and Connor snatches his leg and breaks another rule. He talked and he came, he might as well touch now, break them fucking all.

“I'm sorry,” Connor says again, with actual voice behind it.

One knee still on the bed, Murphy stops and lets himself be pulled down next to him, wordless as ever.

“I didn't mean to,” Connor says dumbly, and then he clamps his mouth shut because of course Murphy knows that. His lips are dry, and he swallows and shoves his hand between Murphy's legs and pushes two fingers inside of him before Murphy can protest.

It's wet. From him.

Murphy chokes, vibrating in place with his muscles locked tight around Connor's fingers.

“It's the same, no?” Connor croaks. There is no answer. He curls his fingers, face buried between Murphy's neck and shoulder, and pushes in deeper when his brother spreads his legs with a truly fucked stutter. It adds to the vulgar sounds he never noticed before, too busy focusing on his own sensations instead of paying attention to anything around them. It feels closer, more intimate, with his fingers buried there instead of his cock.

When Murphy comes, it's with an announcement. Maybe it always was. He grips his neck, hard, and pulls him closer until Connor latches onto his throat. His groan vibrates against Connor's lips as he comes all over himself, hand pumping fast, rocking them both with sounds so slick Connor has to close his eyes to remove his hand.

He lies back, panting even though he did nothing, dreading to get up to wash his hands, and he thinks, very fucking quietly, that he's fucked.

*

He is.

*

“I've never been active like that,” Connor tells the ceiling.

Murphy grunts, noncommittal, and kicks a bottle of whiskey out of his way to the couch.

“It's always been—well, ye know. The other way around.”

Passive. Murphy doing the work while he lies back and holds on.

Connor sighs, weirdly loud to his own ears, and scoots up to sit properly. He feels like looking at his knees, blinking to force them into focus. It's not enough to blank out the look Murphy gives him, but it's something. It calms his nerves, that's what it does.

Murphy stretches his legs out, forcing him to bend up his knees, feet on the couch. “I don't think I know what ye mean,” he says. They build a tunnel. His legs are the train, worming their way through.

“Dunno,” Connor says to the tunnel. His hand wants to reach out, pat Murphy's ankle maybe, or his knee. It's the problem condensed to a touch without meaning. “I think about it more often than I probably should.”

When he looks up, Murphy stares at him, and he can't read his face.

“In a good or in a bad way?”

“Dunno,” Connor says again. He looks away, voice thick and body hot in a way that leaves his fingers tingling, the ones he put into him. In a way that raises his urge to go to church and confess his latest sin to alarming heights, and makes it impossible at the same time. In a bloody way that has him lying awake at night, thinking about differences and reasons.

He thinks perhaps Murphy knows only about theirnever, not about the never that belongs to him alone.

*

“Did ye ever not want to?” They're on their way home, collars turned up against the sharp wind, and Murphy must be bloody insane.

“No,” Connor states, and only after, he thinks about the question. Then he says it again, stressing, “ _No_ , Murph.”

They're quiet, a train rattling by overhead, brakes screeching loudly in the curve.

“And it wouldn't matter,” Connor says, staring ahead. “It's not because of me.” So he doesn't get a say.

Murphy stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks on. It's about to rain, and it's been two weeks since the last time.

*

Murphy barges through the door, sort of hectic, and flings himself on the couch. The rosary swings on his chest, drifting off under his arm without his notice. “That's a picture I didn't need to see. Ever, Connor. Make it go away.”

“What?”

“Walked in on Rocco and Mindy fucking.” He pulls a face, scrubbing his hand over it as if to wipe the expression away.

Connor rolls his shoulders, vaguely disgusted even though he can't picture it, thank the Lord. “That's gross,” he says eventually. Murphy peeks through his fingers, eyebrows rising, and Connor shrugs, flustered without reason. “Well, what do ye want me to say?”

“I'm not sure.”

They frown at each other, and Connor lights a smoke to busy his hands.

“It's snowing.”

Following the tug at his heart, Connor glances up with a sudden longing. For something.

“Head out to the Common, freeze our toes off?”

This isn't the something, but maybe it's part of it. “Yes,” Connor says.

*

His toes have lost feeling, completely, all the way.

Before attempting to warm up under the shower, Murphy sets up a pot of tea and makes them drink it. Under his huge scarf, he looks like he's twelve. He doesn't look like someone who would wake him in the middle of the night to sate a need, selfishly. Who tries so hard to be faithful and devout while living with those urges inside of him, making his own brother part of something he might as well do alone.

Like he did, since forever.

They take turns under the shower. Blood rushes back into his limbs, warming him from the outside before pizza does the same job from the inside. It's good. It's a good day, and then Murphy comes to him before he's even asleep. Feet padding over the cold floor, half-hard in the dim light of the moon and the snow and the street lamp and—

Connor shoves his boxers down, eyes fixed on the small bottle in Murphy's hand that advertises Murphy hasn't prepared himself yet. Before he can voice any questions or concerns or anything at all, Murphy nudges him until he turns onto his side, and then even further. The blanket slips off, leaving him shaking with cold and goosebumps.

“Lift yer hips a bit,” Murphy says softly, and Connor's soul descends.

He balls his hands, shoves them under the pillow, and spreads his thighs—and scrambles up on his knees, spreading wider, cheek against the pillow and arse in the air. Behind him, Murphy rushes out a ragged breath, and Connor keens like a crazy person, throbbing in the position even before Murphy touches him, before the realization sinks in fully.

This is his own idea, at last. This is his idea, and he's never been touched like this, and Murphy knows. He takes his time, every now and then pushing his back down when Connor rounds it to flee his probing fingers. The touch is gentle, and Connor pants against the pillow, briefly wondering about the picture Murphy sees. Whether he has the same thoughts now as he did when he saw Rocco and his girl.

By the time three fingers are buried inside of him, he's filled to the brim, hoarse with it all, and Murphy's hand strokes over his back without ever leaving, easing the burn and the humiliation and the frantic want. The sin, somehow.

He would've done this for Murphy. If he had let him. He would have, and he wants to tell him.

They switch positions.

Connor moves slowly, clenching against the openness, the slick feeling between his cheeks, and he can't look at Murphy even when his brother presses inside, makes him sit on him without lying back himself. They're chest to chest, his hands bruising Murphy's shoulders and Murphy's hands roaming over his hips, his back, his thighs. He mumbles a constant stream of words, and Connor is so full he doesn't know how to move.

“Slow, slow now,” Murphy whispers. “Fucking slow, I'm- Con, ye never fucking said it feels this good.”

“But,” Connor says.

He stayed faithful. Murphy held his holy promise, he didn't sin with anyone else. This is new, this is Murphy sinning for the first time—like this, the first time he fucks someone, and Connor finds himself pushing forward, leaning in until Murphy lies back on the mattress. Connor follows, held in place by Murphy's hands, and moves against the intrusion, up until Murphy's cock nearly slips out, down again until he shakes around him.

It hurts. It burns, and Murphy holds him tighter, claiming him, pushing in until he can't go any further. “Breathe now or so help me,” he stresses. “Ye gotta stop clenching or it will fucking hurt. Ye gotta-”

“I won't confess this,” Connor hisses. “I won't, and ye can't make me.” Their noses bump. His vision swims and he breathes out, forcing his muscles to relax and open up for Murphy because he _wants_ , and it's easier, even easier when Murphy meets his thrusts, panting in his face. He smells like toothpaste.

“I never did.”

It takes a moment to connect the words, then Conner is falling. He shakes and he can't stop moving, cock rubbing between their bellies, sliding wetly, washing away his thoughts until he's a body only.

They kiss after he comes, oversensitive and twitching as Murphy keeps pushing into him. It's too raw and it hurts badly, but Murphy's mouth slides over his, and Connor takes it and his moans and whispers, and he swallows them all so no one will hear and no one will know, and at the end, when it's done and the moans quiet down and the whispers take more coherent form, he swallows those too.

“Enough,” he whispers. Hiding is in vain, but if he tries hard enough, maybe, at the very end of things, there won't be anything left to confess.

“Pray with me,” Murphy says against his lips. “Pray with me like I meant to all the while.”

“In the name of the-”

“No.” Murphy grins. “Like this.” He moves, slipping free, burying him under his body and kisses. His hands are rough from work, palms sticky as they slide over his skin like worship. The touch is warm when Connor arches into it, and it stays warm when he tries the same. It raises a fire, but on his skin, it doesn't burn.

It never did.


End file.
